


Diplomacy

by likeatumbleweed



Series: The Brave and Happy Life of Loki and Sigyn [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jotun!Loki, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeatumbleweed/pseuds/likeatumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is reluctant to share his jotun form in the bedroom; but Sigyn is undeterred...and not above using her considerable skills in diplomacy to get what she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomacy

Loki outright refuses his wife’s request the first time she makes it.

“Absolutely not, Sigyn. Don’t ask again.”

Yet she does ask again, a mere three days later – _please Loki, I want you to share yourself with me that way_ – but he refuses once more, this time more vehemently.

Her third and fourth requests – both made within days of each other not even a week later – are met with increasingly harsh words from him, words that finally earn him a night of fitful rest on the sofa rather than in the bed. But as uncomfortable as his temporary sleeping arrangements are, he is also happy in his apparent victory over her. Surely she has seen the error of her ways, and will no longer bother him with her ludicrous request.

But if there is one lesson Loki stubbornly refuses to learn, it’s that he should never misjudge his wife’s tenacity…or her patience.

* * *

One early afternoon many weeks later, he enters their chambers – only to stop before he is halfway across the room.

Sigyn is sitting on the edge of their bed, her hair unbound and draped across the shoulders of her robe. Bare feet and bare legs promise nothing underneath.

“My mother said you needed my help with some sort of diplomatic matter,” he says, eyeing her curiously. “Now it’s no complaint, as you’ve managed to pry me away from my brother and Odin for the afternoon…but I’ve a feeling that’s not what you actually want with me.”

“What makes you think that?” she asks, affecting a look of exaggerated innocence – exactly the sort of look that will win him over, no matter her true purpose. “Diplomacy can take many shapes, you know.”

“I’ve been involved in many diplomatic missions in my life,” he says, slowly stepping closer, “but I don’t recall any of them beginning this way.”

“No? That’s a shame. Imagine all the fun you’ve missed.”

“I do hope you save this _particular_ ambassadorial skill for me alone,” he says, kneeling before her. “My reparations are endless enough as it is; I would hate to start another inter-realm war over you.”

She winds her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. “You’re a special case, Loki of Asgard. One who requires a soft touch with a deft hand. I can’t think of a better subject on whom to practice my skills.” She pushes his overcoat from his shoulders and kisses a line up his neck to his ear. “It’s my understanding that you appreciate a clever mouth just as well,” she continues, flicking her tongue across his earlobe.

He shudders and draws in a shaky breath, expelling it with a laugh. “Why Ambassador Aradottir, if I didn’t know better I would think you were trying to seduce me.”

“And I thought I was being subtle,” she says, slipping her hands beneath his tunic. The muscles of his torso flex involuntarily as she skims her fingers across the top of his breeches. “I’ve played my hand too aggressively, it seems. Perhaps we should end our negotiations here, before I do something…unseemly.”

“You misunderstand,” he says, reaching between them to untie the sash on her robe. “Propriety is no requirement for diplomatic negotiations with me.”

“Thank the Norns,” she says, just before covering his mouth with hers.

He slides his hands beneath the fabric of her robe as he deepens the kiss, unsurprised but thrilled to find only warm, soft skin beneath. He cups her breasts briefly, reveling in the fullness of them in his hands and the way she arches her back into his touch before he tips her back onto the bed.

Doing so reveals more skin to him as her robe falls open, and he can feel his breeches go tight.

Midgard, Odin, Thor – they are all forgotten in these rooms. This is his sanctuary, and his wife his true salvation.

She pulls him closer. “I want -”

He interrupts her with a kiss. “As do I, my love.”

“I want you to take me -”

More kisses. “Yes, yes, I’m trying to –“

“- in your jotun form.”

Loki goes completely still, before pulling away with a sigh. _Not this again._ “No,” he says, standing quickly and reaching for his overcoat.

Sigyn grabs his hand. “Loki, please –“

“I said _no_!” He wrenches his hand out of her grip, almost sorry when she winces. “Why can you not leave me in peace about it?” He spins away and takes a few steps before whirling back on her, intending to yell at her again for wasting his time, but she is standing right behind him, reaching out for him. The look on her face makes him pause just long enough for her to take both of his hands in hers.

“I’m not trying to upset you –“

“Then why? Why is it so important to you?”

She squeezes his hands and shrugs. “Because…because you’re my husband, and you’re keeping a part of yourself from me. You know all my deepest secrets, my darkest fears – there isn’t anything about me that isn’t laid bare for you. I only want that in return.” She runs her fingers down his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into her gentle touch. “I married you in that form, Loki. You fought for me…nearly _died_ for me in that form. I want to make love to you _in that form_. Besides, aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”

He huffs out a sigh. “Curious about what? Curious to see if I can physically damage you in some way? To see if there’s anything I can possibly do to ensure you never allow my cock near you again? No, I can’t say I’m curious about that at all.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” she asks. “You’re afraid of hurting me?”

“Well, _yes_ ,” he says, his tone mocking. “That’s part of it –“

“That doesn’t scare me, Loki. If it’s too uncomfortable, we’ll stop. Now what’s the other part? What else is giving you pause?”

He drops her hands and turns away, running his fingers through his hair. This time she stays where she is, giving him space to gather his thoughts. Finally, he turns back.

“How can you be attracted to me like that, Sigyn? In that…that _monstrous_ body?”

Her eyes go wide with understanding. “You think I’ll find you repulsive?”

 _Why wouldn’t you?_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. He settles for a nod.

“Oh, darling,” she says with a shake of her head. “I would never. _Never_.” She sets her shoulders with determination and steps back to the bed, dropping her robe to the floor as she goes. “Now…put down that coat, take off your boots, and come here,” she says over her shoulder. “I want to show you something.”

He watches her as she lies down, but doesn’t move. The smallest part of him wants to continue arguing with her, to deny her what she wants simply because he’s annoyed. But the larger part – the part currently being ruled by something other than his brain – sees only his beautiful wife, utterly naked and spread out for him on their bed.

_She asks for so little – and yet when she does, it’s the one thing I’m loath to give her._

His coat falls to the floor forgotten, his boots are gone with a wave of his hand, and he is pulled inexorably forward. The bed dips as he settles in beside her.

“Give me your hand,” she says, and he does.

She brings his fingers to her mouth, kissing them lightly before moving his hand to the side of her breast.

“Do you see these here?” There are silvery stripes, barely visible, beneath her skin. She runs his fingers across them before pushing his hand lower, just above her hip where there are even more. “And here?”

“Yes, I see them.” If he’d ever noticed them before, it was barely in passing. He knows they are from her pregnancy, when her body changed and grew full with his child – _in your absence, you fool, never forget it_ – but it has never occurred to him to ask about them; his mind is always occupied elsewhere when they’re in bed together.

“I didn’t have these when we met. Do you find me less attractive for having them now?”

“Of course not –”

“Do they change who I am on the inside? My scent? My taste? How I feel?” She moves his hand slowly down her thigh and back up, leaving it to rest on her breast once more.

He runs his thumb across her nipple, pleased when it peaks under his ministrations. “I understand what you’re saying, my love. And honestly,” he leans in closely, “it’s a _terrible_ comparison.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “It’s not _that_ terrible.”

“These marks,” he says, running his open palm down her torso, “were created in the making of our son, the making of _new life_. My natural state is one to be feared, one that only brings forth death and destruction, Sigyn. That you would equate the two is appalling.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” she asks. “You speak of our son, and in the same breath insist your natural state – _his_ natural state, I might add, and one he cannot control – is one to be feared and reviled.”

“It’s different –“

“The only difference is you were raised to fear what you truly are. I _refuse_ to do the same to Ari…but how will we ever prove to him that he is beautiful and worthy of love – no matter his outward appearance – if his father doesn’t believe that about himself?”

He just stares at her, unable to form any kind of coherent argument against her. She has rendered him speechless; it’s a trick only a handful of people have ever been able to pull off, and further proof of the unsettling effect she has on him…not only physically, but mentally. 

She uses his silence to further her case.

“Intimacy is all I ever crave from you, Loki. But _true_ intimacy…that requires a lowering of all our boundaries, all our inhibitions. You chose me to be your wife, my love. Now, beyond my devastating beauty and fierce intelligence,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh, “I would like to think you also chose me because you know I love you wholeheartedly and without reservation. That when you are at your most vulnerable, I’m your safe harbor, your shelter, your protection.”

_You are all of that and more, my treasured wife, my darling Sigyn. Would that I could be the same for you._

She has interlaced their fingers across her chest while speaking, and he can feel her heartbeat beneath her skin, strong and sure. She is radiant with honesty and love, and he is once again aware of how little he feels he deserves her – yet simultaneously and terribly aware of just how much he loves her in return, how willingly he would do anything for her, anything at all.

“I really, _really_ hate it when you’re right,” he says, and the smile he receives in return is blinding.

With only a thought, the rest of his clothing disappears, and there is nothing left between them but the familiar veneer of his Aesir skin. He presses his lips to hers and releases the bonds of his illusory magic, removing his last defense against the pain of rejection, and he aches for her in an entirely new way. Her mouth grows steadily hotter as he shifts, just as her chest goes warmer beneath his palm. He is dimly aware of gooseflesh that has cropped up on her skin, and he wonders briefly how he must feel to her now, but the scalding slide of her tongue against his is too pleasant a distraction to linger on the thought for too long.

She pushes his hand further down her body, across the slope of her belly and into the valley between her legs, wordlessly encouraging him to explore that most intimate and delicate part of her. He breaks from their kiss to watch as he slides his hand between her thighs, and the contrast of his blue skin – with its newly raised ridges and dark nails – against her rosy flesh brings on a fresh wave of revulsion and hesitation. His hand goes still, but she squeezes her legs together to keep it in place before he can pull it away.

Hands on either side of his head gently turn him back to face her, and he finds the blue of her eyes swallowed up in wide pupils, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted just enough to allow her shallow breaths.

“Keep your eyes on me. I want you to see the pleasure you give me.”

She lowers one hand to rest over his, letting her knees fall to the sides as she does. He once called her legs the “Gates of Valhalla” in a moment he brushed off as humorous; but he has ever used his humor and his words to mask uncomfortable realities – sometimes from others, but most often from himself. In truth, the feelings Sigyn brings forth in him when any part of him is buried inside her are as close as he has ever come to feeling true peace and acceptance.

Very few things truly frighten Loki, but the vulnerability he reveals in these moments of intimacy is at once as terrifying as it is longed-for. He understands that, at its core, deliberate vulnerability is an act of giving someone else the tools to destroy you – but Loki is at long last beginning to appreciate that destruction is not always something to avoid, that you cannot evolve without it, and that his greatest desire is to be ruined and remade by Sigyn’s hand into a man worthy of her devotion.

“Do you feel that?” she asks, pulling him from his thoughts as she slides his hand over her center, drenched with her arousal. “How my body responds to you…you and only you?”

“Yes…yes, I do.”

He allows one finger to breach her entrance, and they hiss simultaneously – though each for very different reasons. The warmth of her body, usually so welcoming, is for a moment almost excruciatingly hot.

“Ah! You’re so _cold_ ,” she whispers, her eyes going wide.

He starts to pull his hand back – _this was a terrible idea, Sigyn, why do you never listen to me_ – when she clamps her thighs around him once more. “Stop now and I swear on the souls of my ancestors, I will _divorce_ you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, taken aback by her audacity but making no more attempts to retreat from her.

“I might,” she says. “Why risk it?”

She relaxes her legs, and he is surprised to find the temperature difference between their bodies where they are joined has rapidly tapered off into something far more enjoyable for both of them.

He decides to test her resolve by adding a second, and then a third finger, each addition accompanied by renewed – but blessedly temporary – twinges of discomfort on both their parts, before levelling out once again.

The movements of his hand are gentle but steady, and not once does he lower his eyes. He is painfully aware of how he must look to her – the cobalt of his skin, the crimson of his eyes, the true appearance he usually keeps so skillfully hidden – but her gaze never falters, never wavers, never changes from adoration to disgust, and when she reaches up to trace her fingers across the sensitive ridges of his forehead in a move so heartbreakingly tender, he is undone.

He moves his fingers faster within her, bringing his thumb up to circle and rub the spot that brings her the most pleasure, and her response is immediate; the gentle thrusting of her hips into his hand, the gasps and whimpered praises, the biting of her lower lip that spurs him on. He could no sooner look away than stop breathing, and he sees it in her face and hears it in her breath an instant before he feels it on his fingers, the rhythmic tremors of her release and the flood of renewed arousal that accompanies it.

“I’m ready for you,” she says breathlessly, and he allows her to maneuver him to a position between her legs. “Please… _please_ take your pleasure from me, just as you are.”

He dips his head to kiss her as he pushes forward, and as hot as she was on his fingers, the intensity of the heat of her body as it envelops his cock is increased tenfold. He is going to burn alive from the inside out, be reduced to ash and bone in her embrace, and no part of him wants to prevent it. He can’t help but moan into her mouth, but her arms grip him tightly and he doesn’t stop until he’s fully sheathed.

She breaks from his mouth to kiss across his cheek to his ear, her legs entwining with his as her hands trace the ridges on his back. “Are you all right?” she whispers, and it’s all he can do not to weep into her hair.

_Only worried about my comfort and not your own. I will spend the rest of my days earning your companionship, beloved._

“Yes, yes,” he says.

“Then please, _move_ ,” she begs, and he does.

He closes his eyes to focus on all of his other senses. Sigyn is whispering in his ear – _I love you, Loki…you are so beautiful…so beautiful_ – and everywhere their bodies touch hums with energy, the contrast between the cold and hot almost poetic in its severity. It’s a fitting description of their relationship – so different in every possible way, and yet they fit together flawlessly, two halves of a whole, made perfect in their love for one another.

He can feel his completion approaching far more rapidly than he would like, but it only serves to make him increase his pace, a drowning man desperately reaching for the safety of the shore, and when it finally hits him he fears his heart will burst right out of his chest.

When he is steady enough to open his eyes, he finds Sigyn wrecked beneath him, openly sobbing, and for a moment he is as afraid as he’s ever been that he’s hurt her. But then she speaks, and it’s the last thing he ever expects to hear.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for trusting me, for loving me. _Thank you._ ”

He lowers his face to the base of her neck in an effort to hide his own tears – _my gratitude to you is immeasurable, Sigyn, and yet you ever say the words I cannot voice –_ and she clings to him as tightly as she dares, until he is certain she is no longer shivering from passion, but from the cold of his body. He knows instinctively that she won’t entreat him to revert back to his warmer Aesir form, fearing he will feel slighted, so he changes without being asked. 

As soon as her body relaxes, he pulls from her to stretch out beside her. She curls up into his embrace, her head resting on his chest, and he runs his fingers through her hair.

“I love you, Sigyn,” he says, and the words are everything and nothing at once. “Remind me to never underestimate your diplomatic abilities again.”


End file.
